Signature
by nlizzette7
Summary: "'It's my birthday,' Chuck explains. He doesn't know why he tells her. Maybe it's because it's grown tiresome to pretend that streamers and asinine games like pin the tail on the donkey don't exist. Maybe it's because he doesn't want her to think he's all so bad." A belated one-shot written for Chair Week. Prompt: Birthdays


Chuck turns fifteen on a wintery Saturday, and there's little fanfare. Just a text from Nate in which he, of course, misspells every word: _hapy birthdy bro. _And then there's another wretched strand of silk laid out in a clean black box, unwrapped, not personalized. The bowtie is red this year, another to add to the rainbow collection in his drawer, and it's accompanied by a thin card signed in Bart's name with the girlish flourish of his secretary's handwriting. That morning, Chuck frowns as he lifts the material from the box, wondering if his father has mistaken it for a decorative noose.

It's not as if he's surprised. He's _Chuck Bass_ – and the thought of him hovering over a candlelit cake with a party hat tilted on his head as Bart takes a photo for the albums is so ridiculous that it would hold its own in a comedy show.

They'll never be _that _sort of family.

They'll never be a family at all.

And so Chuck forces the day to be like any other, making sure to burn an extra ounce of whiskey down his throat when he wakes up in the morning. That's how he finds himself stretched out in the backseat of his limo at an ungodly hour – with company. The sky is rising into a yawning pink. Chuck's vision is hazy as the car rolls down Fifth Avenue. Five in the morning and lips are attached to his neck, a long, tanned limb slung over his parted legs. He's growing tired of this tryst with a slutty junior, one much older than he is, who had overstayed her welcome. He dodges her kisses as he stares outside of his window, not feeling much older at all.

It's then that they roll past 57th street, turning the corner that makes up Tiffany's cream building. He knows that this store is important, but the alcohol in his system forces his memory away. But when he spots a dainty figure in a little black dress, eating a croissant in front of one of the store windows, he does a double-take. In an instant, he realizes that the brown curls, the silver heels, belong to Audrey reincarnated, his own best friend's girlfriend.

Chuck snaps at Arthur to stop the car.

"Take her home," Chuck orders, patting his driver on the back. Arthur nods, already used to hosting the chariot of shame for the young bachelor. The tipsy blonde frowns in protest as he extricates himself from her arms. "I assume you know your address." Chuck smirks at the girl as he steps foot out of the limo, steadying himself on the concrete.

"_Seriously? _I – " Her words are muffled when Chuck slams the door shut. He can only hear the sound of his own breathing now, intermingled with New York at its waking point. Only a few cars zip down the avenue, and the low click of heeled businesswomen and drone of businessmen on their cell phones fade as they make their way to work. And then, of course, there's only Blair – nibbling another bit of her croissant before washing it down with what has to be hot chocolate.

"Well, well, well," Chuck drawls before he can stop himself. "What's this, Waldorf? The penthouse not cutting it for you?" Blair startles, sending a drop of hot chocolate onto the back of her hand. She frowns down at the minor imperfection, then up at Chuck, who's leering at her like it's a full-time job.

Blair rolls her eyes, dabbing at her hand with a napkin until the spot is gone. "_Great_. Of all the people in Manhattan, I had to run into _you_."

"Now, now, Blair," Chuck murmurs, perching on the concrete wall, directly under the silver _T_ in Tiffany & CO. "You can't be the queen bitch to me today."

Blair sighs, "No? Why not?"

"It's my birthday," Chuck explains. He doesn't know why he tells her. Maybe it's because it's grown tiresome to pretend that streamers and asinine games like pin the tail on the donkey don't exist. Maybe it's because he doesn't want her to think he's all so bad.

"Your birthday," Blair repeats in wonderment, as if someone had left her out of a momentous occasion. "Then why aren't you stoned off your ass, pretending to mingle with your father's groupies at one of his celebratory brunches?"

"I'm afraid," Chuck starts, already eager to get off the topic, "that this day doesn't exactly call for celebration in the Bass household." He grimaces, and Blair takes note of it. She realizes that it's strange, to be alone with him, out on the city streets – when they're not tipsy at some party in his suite at The Palace or in uniform as he cracks jokes on every poor soul unfortunate enough to cross his path.

For a moment, Blair considers that they might not be so different in that sense.

"Haven't you eaten anything?" Blair asks, cocking her head to the side. At fourteen, her hair only brushes the tops of her shoulder blades, bouncing around her rosy cheeks. She studies him, and Chuck studies her, until she cracks first. "Haven't you…showered?"

Chuck raises his eyebrows and smiles at her. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Ugh," Blair groans. "That wasn't even slightly clever."

"Why would I have eaten anything?" Chuck raises the miniature bottle of clear Smirnoff from inside his suit jacket. "This is all I need." Blair curls her lips in disgust as he sips from the bottle, staring her down as he does. She waits, rather impatiently, until Chuck is done and the offending object disappears from sight again.

"Dorota always makes me a spread of my favorite morning pastries when it's my birthday," Blair claims proudly. She only receives a blank stare in return.

"Well, that's just _lovely_," Chuck sneers, mocking her.

He's mean, but Blair understands why. It's easier to have a heart of ice. You're safer when you're feared – you break when you are loved. Blair pauses before stretching out her arm, handing him the brown paper bag. "If you eat it all, you'll have to buy me another one."

He's surprised by the gesture, recalling when she once bit one of her minions out for picking a strawberry from Blair's fruit salad. _"Sharing food is for campfire hippies and hobos," _Blair had hissed. _"Of which I am obviously neither." _Chuck wonders why there's suddenly an exception being made for him. But he decides not to ask.

He decides not to ruin it.

Instead, Chuck chooses the spot where she's already bitten down, her teeth leaving a little half moon crescent in their wake. He bites over it, sliding his tongue over the buttery flakes. "Chocolate," Chuck murmurs pleasantly, savoring the filling. "And a hint of…" His eyes gleam as he trails off, pretending to ponder the taste. "A hint of _Waldorf_."

"And you wonder why people can't stand you," Blair murmurs, shooting him a look.

"Yet," he chuckles, returning the croissant to her, "here you are."

"Thank you for reminding me," Blair sniffs, pulling herself together. She gathers the shawl hanging from the crook of her elbow and pulls it around her shoulders. Blair tilts her head up at him and says, "Happy birthday, Chuck." She smirks. "And try not to catch anything amidst your debauchery. STDs are gifts that keep on giving."

"I'll keep your words of wisdom in mind, Waldorf," Chuck laughs, impressed by her quick wit. "But I don't remember asking you to leave."

Blair scoffs at this, looking at him as if he'd grown another head. "_Right_. Because I take orders from you now?" Chuck rolls his eyes, but he seems defeated when she makes no motion to return to him. She waits, narrowing her eyes. "But if you're going to _kindly _ask me to stay – "

"Alright," Chuck cuts in. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I wouldn't mind your company. I'm afraid that I've sent my entertainment for the evening home, and I have nothing better to do." He raises his eyebrows. "Hey, you might learn something."

Blair rolls her eyes, infuriated. But, with Chuck, she knows that it's the most she'll ever get. She makes a big show about walking back over to him.

"So," Chuck says, relaxing when she rejoins him. "What's the grand plan, Waldorf?"

Blair, who prides herself on being a master at impromptu planning, racks her brain. "Well, what do you like to do?"

"Do you honestly want me to answer that?"

"Allow me to rephrase," Blair snaps disapprovingly. "What do you like to do – that isn't sexual, illegal, or immoral?"

"Now where's the fun in that?" Chuck counters. At first, she thinks he's only kidding, but as he stands in front of her, he comes up with nothing. "Look, let's just forget about all of this…" Chuck glances around at the bright sky, the cluster of tourists bustling around them. "You and I clearly have no reason to feign being amicable, so – "

"The piano," Blair bursts, her eyes lit with excitement. "You play the piano, don't you?" He's amused when her black dress swirls around her legs, and she clasps her hands together – the lightest he's ever seen her. "When we were younger and had play dates with Nate and Serena you used to soundtrack our conversations." Blair narrows her eyes. "Every time I'd walk into the room, you'd play the song from _Jaws_."

Chuck bows his head, grinning. "I may recall something along those lines."

"Come," Blair demands. In an instant, her tiny hand slips into his, each crooked space between his fingers lining up perfectly with hers. She gasps at the feeling, yanking her hand away as if he'd scalded her. Chuck stares down at his open palm for a moment before curling his fingers in, dropping his hand at his side.

"What's the matter, Waldorf?" Chuck asks in an attempt to ease the tension. "I won't bite. Unless, of course, you ask nicely…"

"Stop it," Blair warns and settles on tugging the elbow of his suit jacket instead, a safe distance from his rough hand. He allows her to drag him across the street, her touch light yet threatening. It's when they don't stop after crossing the intersection that Chuck pulls away.

"Why are we walking?"

Blair sighs. "When you put one foot in front of the other, it propels you through – "

"Clever, Waldorf," Chuck says. "I mean, why don't I call Arthur? Wherever we're going…I'd love to give you a ride."

"Oh, I'm sure you would," Blair retorts. "But there aren't enough sanitation products in the world that would make me want to go anywhere near that venereal disease on wheels." She walks on and expects him to follow. Chuck appraises the way her hips sway as she saunters down the street before doing as he's told.

"You know," Chuck continues. "You're wrong. I've yet to christen that backseat." He holds her elbow, and there comes that shock again, shooting straight up her arm. Chuck leans in as they walk, nearly causing an accident as they step off the curb too soon. "Interested?"

"That's never going to happen," Blair says sweetly, elbowing him in the side. "Now shut up and walk, or I'll make you spend the entire day at Tiffany's." She stops in her tracks, her attention turning to the neat line of swanky storefronts ahead of them. "In fact, we should have time for a few quick stops."

"Waldorf, I'm not your designated shopping buddy," Chuck groans. "If this is your idea of festive…" Blair shoots him doe eyes, tying her hair back into a little chignon. They partake in a momentary stare down before Chuck relents, and Blair practically skips in victory.

An hour later, Blair's hands are loaded with an array of pretty multi-colored shopping bags. Chuck strolls behind her, carrying the least embarrassing of the bunch. He hooks the silky handle of the Alice and Olivia bag on one of his fingers and chews on an éclair as he admires the way the wind is hitting the skirt of her dress and blowing her hair out of its up-do. They walk in content silence on their way up 83rd street, then into Central Park. He finishes the treat she bought him and licks his fingertips, which surprisingly draws a blush from her cheeks. And then Blair breaks the silence and talks to him about some idiotic stunt that Serena pulled the other day, about how much he hates Penelope, scold him about drinking alcohol so early in the morning.

Chuck would usually consider it nagging. He has a no talking policy, especially when he knows that the conversation won't culminate under the sheets. But he enjoys their banter, the way she's perfectly in step with him, how she can keep up in a way no other girl can.

It's only slightly unsettling.

"We're here," Blair says, snapping him out of his reverie. He glances up, taken aback by the shadows falling around him, the dankness under the arches overlooking the Bethesda Fountain behind the MET. It's too cold for the usual sweep of foreigners to crowd the place with oversized cameras and packed snacks. Chuck looks past the stone pillars and to the angel statue before them. And then she motions to a crevice on the other side of the tunnel where, surely enough, the low hum of a piano ribbons through the air. "It's one of my favorite places," Blair says, slightly unsure of her decision. "Nate complains about coming here to do nothing. I wouldn't expect you to understand either. I just thought it would be a nice reprieve from bars and _whorehouses _– "

"I know," Chuck smirks, cutting in.

"You know?" Blair narrows her eyes. "Ominous, much?"

"I know how much you love this place, Waldorf. You practically salivated over it in that scrapbook of yours."

"Scrapbook? How do you know…"

"I stole it in the fifth grade," Chuck admits, not even slightly apologetic.

"_Bass_," Blair snaps, slapping his shoulder. He laughs at her, but she isn't amused. "How could you?"

"I want to get married here in a pretty dress with a diamond headband on," Chuck taunts her, mocking her high voice with a pitchy imitation. Blair glowers as he goes on.

"As if I sound like that," Blair huffs. Her eyebrows slant downward as she turns away from him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Come on, Waldorf. Don't be upset," Chuck sighs, not sure how to make amends. "It was…cute." But Blair doesn't budge. Chuck shrugs helplessly, not thrilled that he's upset her. He coughs, "Look, let's go sit over there. And you can torture me with a recap of all those stupid Hepburn movies."

"They're not stupid," Blair hisses, then realizes that she's given him what he wants. He grins as he guides her over to a grassy null beyond the fountain. He sits and she stands until he begrudgingly bids farewell to his Armani jacket and lets her sit atop it. They say that way for fifteen minutes, and he pretends not to watch her. He pretends that the way the sun hits her hair doesn't send things trampling through his stomach.

"So, did you get anything good?" Blair sighs as she sits back against his jacket, grass tickling the side of her arm. It breaks his concentration on the faded beauty mark just under the slope of her neck. He frowns, asks her to repeat the question.

"For your birthday, Bass," Blair sighs, peeved at having to repeat herself. "Did you get anything notable?"

Yes, _this_.

Yes…_you_.

Chuck shakes his head. Thoughts like those can't exist, even in the twisted caverns of his own mind. He forces a smile, pretends it's an accident when his arm brushes hers. "Knowing Nathaniel, he'll score me a dime bag, and I'll spend the rest of my day in sweet oblivion."

Blair frowns, hating the way he taints the image of her perfect boyfriend. "Aside from the usual. Is that all?"

Chuck shrugs. "We can't all get showered with boxes from the gold collection."

Blair rolls her eyes at this, then pauses, hesitating. "Can I show you something?"

It's the wrong question to ask, and she immediately regrets it when his eyes trail down her body, stopping just where her dress hangs over her breasts. "By all means."

"You're a pig," Blair replies simply, as if it's an obvious fact. "Close your eyes."

"Hm, I like where this is going."

"One more joke, Bass," Blair warns. Chuck smiles as he hears her rustle through the bags, then feels something soft drop around his shoulders.

"You know," Chuck grins, "if you wanted to blindfold me, all you had to do was ask. It's always the pure ones that have the dirtiest – "

"What did I say?" Blair reprimands. He feels her adjust the fabric around his neck, her small hands sliding down his chest before leaving him completely. Chuck opens his eyes before she lets him, first taking in the sight of her kneeling before him, her dress riding up her thighs, and then he remembers to glance down at the scarf hanging around his neck. It's red and navy, checkered and dotted with neat fringe at the bottom. He touches it, worrying the material between his fingertips as she admires the way it looks on him. On any other guy, the pattern would look juvenile – especially on someone like Nate – but she has to admit that he actually looks…_handsome_.

"Do you like it?"

Chuck raises his eyebrows and nods, forcing a lump down his throat. "How did you pull this one off?"

"When we were in Armani," Blair explains. "And you were shamelessly flirting with the salesclerk." She hesitates before placing a hand on his arm, then the other on his shoulder. They're hugging, but Blair isn't a hugger, and Chuck isn't _anything_. But there they are.

"Happy birthday, Bass."

His lips brush her hair when he whispers, "Thank you."

Blair pulls away just as quickly, but her fingers remain on one of the navy plaid squares. Her eyes light up when he keeps the scarf on and smiles down at it. "I thought…" Blair trails off. "I thought that it could be your signature."

_Fin._


End file.
